


Chained

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt and comfort, Kissing, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9920507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: On the loneliest, darkest night of his career, Robbie finds out that life isn’t so bad when you have Mark Owen to snuggle up against.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Contains descriptions of self-harm.

They all had bruises. Gaz had a big one on his knee, Jay sported some small green ones on his arms, and Howard had even managed to fall over and break his thumb on tour several weeks ago. As for Mark, his right wrist was sore from replying to all that fan mail the postman kept delivering to him in boxes. (At least, that’s what he claimed. Howard knew better.) But the key was to not let the smarting show, and that’s where Robbie Williams went terribly wrong. He wore the pain all over his young, wounded body. Weird bruises showed up underneath the harsh fluorescent lights inside cramped dressing rooms and make-up departments, and no-one quite knew where they’d come from — only that they had to be hidden away again.

And as was often the case with people who had much pain to hide, the lies about the yellow and blue bruises just kept on coming: ‘Football’, a bruised-up Robbie claimed one evening. ‘I got into a fight with this bird’s boyfriend,’ was his unbelievable line the next day. (At that age, Robbie didn’t do fights.) Even less convincing was his claim that he’d walked into a door at the hotel a week later. But none of the lies really stacked up, and a lot of mates and bodyguards and yes-men were starting to wonder what was really going on. Could it be that Robbie was doing drugs? Was he indeed getting into fights with men twice the size of him? Is that what all those bruises meant? Or was this just Robbie being Robbie: the youngest member of the band, prone to accidents because he was made that way?

No-one knew. In spite of their worries, not a single mate of Rob’s dared ask: partly because the members of Take That were simply too tied-up in the whirr of promotion to handle a band member’s problems, but mostly because that’s just not what they did. They were boys, and so they were always meant to suffer in silence. They had ample chats about food, girls, shags ( _good_ shags), movies, football, more girls, and music, but some things they just didn’t talk about. _Especially_ not their feelings. They just didn’t know how.

Unfortunately, no-one realised quite how bad it was until it was too late.

The calendar had just turned to October. The boys were staying at a four-star hotel in some unpronounceable city in Central Europe (after a few weeks on the road, every city and winding road tends to blend into one big whirr of misplaced wanderlust), and for some reason Mark and Rob had ended up in the same room together. Gary, Howard, and Jason all had separate rooms. Lucky sods.

Mark and Robbie having to share a room would ordinarily not have been an issue, but Mark had by now reached the age when everything must be tidy and organised whereas Rob was still as disorganised as his young self betrayed him. This would make for quite an awkward evening, which is perhaps what saved Rob’s life in the end.

It was dark, about nine or ten o’clock at night: bedtime, if boy bands had bedtimes. A sliver of light escaped through the half-drawn muslin curtains, illuminating Mark’s small frame on the bed. The bedside lamps were on. A gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on their windows filled the room with a delicate soundtrack that reminded them of home. Mark was trying reading a book about yoga and meditating and other wholesome nonsense, but his companion was making it hard to concentrate. For while Mark’s end of the room was clean and spotless, with tomorrow’s clothes already carefully folded on his bedside table, Rob’s end of the room was an absolute mess. Clothes were strewn all over the floor in sad little heaps of cotton and wool, and Rob was in the middle of a dramatic display of emptying the rest of his suitcase on his bed. Clearly, he was looking for something.

Robbie gave an annoyed huff as though he could not find what he needed, and Mark put down his book. ‘D’you need a hand with that, Rob?’

Robbie just shook his head, like he hadn’t quite heard. Stoically, he kept throwing his clothes on the floor until he finally found what he was looking for: a packet of cigarettes, carefully hidden in an old wool sock. Nigel, their manager, had specifically stated they mustn’t smoke. Repeatedly.

Mark frowned. If Nigel found out Robbie was smoking, he’d be in a lot of trouble. ‘Rob, Nige said . . .’

These words had the wrong effect. ‘Said _what_ , Mark?’ Robbie snapped, apropos of nothing. The angry look in his eyes could have burned Mark’s skin.

Mark’s mouth betrayed a small gasp. He was used to Robbie being difficult in the morning, but never at nine o’clock in the evening after they’d just done a few promo gigs to get themselves noticed. What was up with him? ‘Nige said we shouldn’t _smoke_ , Rob,’ Mark again reminded Robbie as if he was trying to explain a particularly difficult topic to a child. ‘It’s bad for you.’

‘Well, Nige’s not _‘ere_ , is ‘e?’ Robbie shrugged stubbornly, then removed one cigarette before carelessly putting the rest of the packet back where he found it. When he tried to close his overflowing suitcase again, the zippers got stuck and he had to sit on the bloody thing to squash the contents that were stopping it from closing.

It would have made quite a humorous sight — had the hand that held the cigarette not been shaking. Mark noticed it instantly.

‘You all right, Rob?’

Mark asked this very brightly so that Robbie would not think he was worried about him, but the response he got was still snappish and harsh: ‘Yeah. Why _wouldn’t_ I be, Mark? I’m fucking _fine._ ’

Robbie’s words came out so fiercely that it made Mark look down at his hands, embarrassed to have asked such a stupid question. Of course Rob was all right. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing at all. But still — Robbie’s hands were definitely shaking, and for some reason he kept looking round him like a lost child. Why? What had happened that was making Mark’s best mate feel so very listless?

God knows.

Mark tried not to let his worry show. He knew that pushing his mate would achieve nothing, so he brushed off his own remark with a casual wave of his hand and gave Robbie the briefest of glances. ‘Just don’t smoke in ‘ere, will you?’ he said with as much indifference as he could muster.

‘I won’t,’ Rob promised. He didn’t even bother to apologise for the way he’d snapped at Mark. As if nothing had happened, he tucked the cigarette behind his ear and slowly made his way to the door. He stopped to give Mark an odd look. ‘You’re not doing anything _special_ tonight, are you, Markie? I know Dougie is.’

Elsewhere in the hotel, the boys’ bandmates were still up. Gary was slaving away at his keyboard, writing songs that no-one would hear. He was too lost in his own aural bubble to worry about anything else. Jason was at the bar, chatting up three or four girls at a time but secretly wishing he was tucked away in bed, where his mind wouldn’t plague him so. Howard was shagging the best girl in town.

Mark shook his head. ‘Didn’t see anyone I liked.’

It was a lie. Down in the hotel lobby, Mark had met a beautiful blonde with that willowy body type that he liked. She was just an inch shorter and marginally thinner than him, which meant he’d still feel in charge if she ended up being on top. And she was dead clever, too. She wasn’t like those other groupies who ask you loads of questions about what it’s like to be famous. She was probably all right in bed too. But for some reason, Mark hadn’t fancied it. He suddenly saw Robbie’s pained smile as he made his way through the crowd of girls in the corner of his eye, and something made him change his mind. He didn’t even notice it at the time. Mark just assumed that unwanted feeling in the pit of his stomach was his desire to be alone for one night. In reality, it all had to do with his mate.

‘Seriously?’ This came from Robbie.

‘Yeah, well. You can’t meet someone every night, you know.’ Mark attempted an indifferent shrug of his shoulders, then held up the book he was trying to read. ‘I was hoping to finish this book, anyway. It’s dead interesting, you know, about meditating and stuff.’ (Here, Robbie raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.) ‘What about you?’

Robbie scratched his arms. They were red with the marks his short nails had left there. Mark suddenly recalled the strange cuts he had spotted on Rob’s arms one night, and he tried to banish the memory. He put it in the same corner of his mind where he’d left that _look_ in Rob’s eyes in the hotel lobby: far away, but still itching away at his subconscious.

‘Yeah, same,’ said Rob. ‘I think I’ll just head down for a quick fag. See if I can have some time on me own near the hotel entrance. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes if that’s all right with you, Mark. D’you reckon you’ll already be sleepin’ by then?’

Some time passed before Mark spoke again. He reckoned there was probably some truth in what Robbie was saying: if he went outside to smoke a cigarette, no-one would bother him. Not a single girl would think to check out the staircase to the hotel, where zigzagging red velvet made for a grand entrance for the lucky few. If they thought Take That were already inside, then that’s where the groupies would be too. Rob might be able to clear whatever was on his mind.

‘Dunno. Probably.’ Mark looked at the book he was holding. He was in the middle of a chapter about yoga. ‘I think I’ll finish this chapter and turn in.’

Robbie looked oddly relieved at that. Was there something he wasn’t telling Mark? And again, such a weird look in his eyes! ‘I’ll try not to wake you, then. See you tomorrow, Markie.’

Mark tried to utter an enthusiastic ‘yeah’, but no sound came out of his mouth. Instead, Rob had to make do with a nervous smile when he turned his back on Mark and left the room. The door closed with a loud, undeliberate _thud_.

Something _was_ wrong with Robbie. Mark couldn’t stop the thought from leaping into his mind. But what?

Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to find out. Blurry seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours. Despite his best intentions, paralyzing sleep fell over Mark’s tired body like a blanket and made his eyelids flutter closed. Lips parted, the book slipped from his hands as he quickly dozed into a world where everything was wonderful. The sound of the book hitting the floor did not wake him.

|

When Robbie returned to his hotel room two hours later, the first thing he noticed was that the bedside lamps were still on. Dressed in the same fluffy jumper Rob had last seen him in, Mark was fast asleep, adorably so. His precious book was laid bare on the floor, revealing illustrations of men and women in all sorts of bendy poses that made Rob’s head hurt.

Not wanting to wake his mate up, Rob quietly turned off the lights and kicked off his shoes. He hesitated in the dark, then quietly headed to the bathroom with newfound determination, and locked the door behind him with a soft _click_. There was a rusty razorblade already waiting for him in an old make-up bag, hidden away by condoms and a half-empty tube of toothpaste.

Now, let this be clear: Robbie didn’t enjoy doing it at first. No-one in their right mind would. This shit _hurts_ , and he was under no delusion that what he was doing actually made him feel better. It didn’t. But eventually there came a moment when Robbie got over the sting and the nausea, and he started doing it more often.

The cigarettes helped. Sometimes, but not always, they helped numb the pain. It wasn’t what hurt the most, though; the aftermath did. Most of all, it was the simplest things that caused him pain: turning into bed, putting on clothes, someone brushing against him in their cramped tour van, taking showers. _Especially_ taking showers. They made a single cut feel like a thousand.

But worse was having to get dressed on his own on tour. Never seeing girls. Chickening out whenever the lads went swimming together on an evening off. Getting mad at their stylist for forcing him to wear something short and sleeveless. His entire day was suddenly spent on making sure his mates wouldn’t see a single inch of his skin. It was awful, and no way to live a life.

Then again, had he not brought this problem upon himself? No-one had thrust the razorblade into his hands and forced him to do it. This was all on him, like all the other shit he’d done. He deserved this.

Back in that small, claustrophobic bathroom, Robbie tried not to think about the shape of Mark’s sleeping body at the other side of the door. He just dug without looking. It felt like a particularly painful papercut. A thick tear of blood ran down his arms, and he wiped it off with a toilet paper. Another trail replaced it only seconds later, creating thick, meandering red rivers on his skin that soon started to resemble an ocean.

He thought he heard movement in the bedroom. It might just have been the wind hitting the window, but it was enough to make him hold his breath when he made the next cut. And the next. They were deep ones this time. Tears pricked against his eyes. Blinking didn’t help: one tear took a quick route down his nose, and he wiped it off with his left hand. Still he kept going.

He focussed on his breath, on the bad thoughts that he was trying to dig the blade into. He forced his mind away from the pain. For a brief, blissful moment, Rob could be all alone with just his own demons and the razorblade in his hand; Robbie Williams, just the ordinary, smarting lad, like he was deep inside. Tonight, he would not be a cog in the boy band machine but a blank canvas, ready to be scratched into.

He moved the blade higher, towards the sensitive skin on his wrist, and let his demons run free in his mind. He thought of all the bad things the press had said about him; about always being stood in the back; about his lack of a sex life; about the members in the band who looked right through him every single day of the week. He didn’t want to be a part of that anymore. He didn’t want to have to _beg_ his superiors to get him a line in a song; he wanted to have it all, on his own, in a world where he could be free and unbound by the chains that held him. He wanted to go solo like all the artists before him and show everyone what they’d been missing.

Except, he couldn’t. Robbie was stuck in a never-ending vicious cycle of recording, promo, concerts, interviews, and signings that showed no signs of stopping. If he left, his world would simply fall apart. He’d be right where he started, back with no GCSEs and nothing higher than a D; nothing to his name but a number one song he hadn’t written.

At the end of the day, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that his departure would be anything but an unadulterated mess that he’d soon regret. He’d be on the front of every tabloid newspaper and girl’s magazine, but once the pandemonium had died down he’d be all on his own in a world he couldn’t navigate. He didn’t even know how much milk or bread cost at a supermarket. Or how to cook an egg. It’d be like starting all over again.

But here’s the thing; if _he_ did go – and he might –, Nige would just replace him anyway or forget he ever existed. Even without Robbie Williams to make up the numbers, the Take That machine would simply keep going like expendable cogs in a wheel, spinning and spinning until the whole thing exploded in their faces. That was his destiny. He could stay and feel like a worthless piece of shit, or he could go and ruin his last chance at salvation. There wasn’t a way out.

Just a permanent one.

The blade was inches removed from his wrist. He wondered if it’d hurt like the others. He wondered if his body would cry out the blood in gentle red tears and make him lose consciousness slowly or if the dark would swallow him whole immediately. It almost didn’t bear thinking about, but he did, and he realised with a pang what he’d come here for. He was here to end it all.

The October weather mirrored his feelings. The sound of thunder announced the arrival of a storm. Rain started pouring down faster. A branch whipped against the translucent bathroom window, like a person was standing right outside it. It was the only sound louder than Rob’s own incessant thoughts.

Robbie caught his own reflection in the mirror. He had considerably blanched over the last few minutes, and looked, frankly, like a ghost. His arms were covered in deep, slanting slashes and trails of blood that he had messily tried to clean up. It wasn’t a good look, but then again there was no dignity in death. He’d looked like this for the past few weeks. He was used to it by now. He could avoid looking into mirrors if he wanted to.  

But it was the look in his own eyes that did it. They looked hollow and terrified, and for a split second Robbie thought he was watching someone else in the mirror; someone he did not know or recognise.

He wanted that person dead.

As though time had stopped, Robbie’s body suddenly felt languid and heavy. He moved his hand slowly. His ears ringed and his soul got stuck in quicksand, slowing everything down until not a single cell in his body belonged to him and he was nothing but an empty shell that deserved nothing but pain.

His hands, unwilling to make that final cut, shook. His breathing came in short bursts. The stench of cigarettes permeated the air. Grief hit him in waves. In his confused mind, he saw withered, pitch-black hands reaching out to grab him and pull him down. He let the tears fall freely down his cheeks as his legs came closer and closer to giving in.

He tried to conjure up a single happy thought before left. He tried to remember how his last drag of that cigarette had felt, how utterly calming and ethereal it had made him feel: so calm, so safe; but all he could think of was Mark’s smile at the end of their performance that night.

Rob became so lost in the strangeness of this final thought that Mark had to knock on the door twice before the sound caught up with him.

‘Rob, mate. Are you all right?’ came Mark’s voice, like a lighthouse in the dark. It made Rob start so badly that he knocked over his own toiletry bag, and sent everything inside it crashing to the floor. A glass deodorant bottle landed on a tile and left a big crack there. Condoms and toothpaste followed. The blade slipped from Rob’s hands and left a deep gash in his fingers.

Robbie swore. Utter fear rippled through him. He haphazardly tore two metres worth of toilet paper from the metallic roller and started dabbing his arms in blind panic, terrified that Mark would come in and see the state he was in. A staccato of _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ penetrated his thoughts.

‘Robbie?’ Mark tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Robbie had locked the door. ‘Can you hear me, Robbie?’

Mark sounded terrified, as if he already knew exactly what was going on behind that bathroom door. He did. He’d known all along, but he’d tucked it away in the corners of his mind, far out of reach, like all the other bad things this band made them feel. It was easier that way.

‘W-whatever’s happened, we – we can sort this out, Rob, I promise.’

Robbie’s voice trembled as he spoke. Mark almost didn’t recognise it. ‘Y-you should go to bed, Markie.’

The toilet paper, a poor substitute for a bandage, had bled right through. Thin, paint-like blood stained Rob’s fingers. With the contents of Rob’s toiletry bag strewn all the floor, it looked like a bomb had gone off.

‘I won’t till you tell me what’s going on, mate.’ Mark sniffed a little here, audibly troubled by what he knew was happening. He wished he could reach through the door and hug his best friend, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t hugged Rob for a long, long time. ‘I saw those bruises on your arms, Rob. Please – please don’t make it worse. We can talk about this.’

‘I’m not makin’ things worse, mate,’ Rob lied. He knew how unbelievable his words sounded the moment he spoke them.

‘Then why won’t you come out and talk to me, then?’

‘I-I’m talking to you _now_ , aren’t I, Markie?’ Robbie tried to laugh at this to lift the air, but no sound came out.

Rain began to fall harder, pelting the windows now. As their emotions became heavier, darker, so did the weather. They were caught in a perfect whirlwind of fear, and any moment now the wind would catch them under their feet and lift them up, taking them into a dark world where they’d never be seen again. Mark had to grab Robbie back down before it was too late.

By now, panic had risen in Mark’s voice. He tried the door again. Still locked. ‘Please, Rob. I’m your mate, ain’t I? You can tell me everything, you know.’ He tried to say this in a reassuring manner, but he did not feel at all reassured himself. There was no way he could prepare himself for what he might see behind that door. ‘I – I won’t judge. Promise.’

This scene had gone on so long that the bad thoughts in Robbie’s mind had changed into an indecipherable blur. Robbie had cut them all out, or perhaps Mark had just done the trick with that terrified, trembling voice of his. But in their wake, those negative thoughts had left utter sadness and _shame_ for what had come to pass, and what escaped Rob’s mouth next was a loud sob that ripped through his entire body.

In one swift blow, the terrible realisation of what he had done hit him. Finally, his legs gave in and he let gravity pull him to the floor.

Mark had heard it all. ‘R-Rob? Rob, are you all right?’

On that cold, hard bathroom floor, Robbie put his arms round his knees and pulled them close. His thin, pale face pressed tightly against his legs, he cried and cried and cried. His body shook like a fragile leaf in a thunderstorm, apt to shatter into a million pieces if someone touched him even with a fingertip.

‘Please, Rob,’ Mark reiterated, his voice barely a whisper, ‘you need to let me in.’

‘I c-can’t,’ came the muffled answer.

Mark swallowed. He tried not to let his mind take him to the dark place Rob might be in, and spoke with as little concern as he could. It didn’t work. ‘W-why not?’

‘I don’t – w-want – y-you to – see me – like this,’ Robbie said in between sobs and hiccups. He sounded like a child.

Mark felt absolutely helpless. Never having been so low, so sad, he had no idea what he could tell Rob to make him feel better. Mark had always known happiness and positivity in his life, and he just couldn’t imagine ever losing sight of his life so badly that he wanted to harm himself. It was something that the sad girls he met on his travels did, not _boys_. But all the signs were there – all the bruises and cuts and marks on Rob’s skinny body – and it became clear to him that Robbie was just another sad person who had somehow turned his back on everything.

‘But I _want_ to see you, Rob.’

This had no effect. Robbie said nothing.

Mark tried to think of something more soothing to say. He’d never really learned how to console someone when they were sad, so for a moment he struggled to come up with a story or piece of advice that wouldn’t sound belittling or patronising. But then his mind flashed back to a girl he got to know a few years ago, and it felt like the perfect opening.

As though he thought it would somehow make his words reach Rob’s ears more easily, Mark decided to sit on the floor. Like Robbie, he leaned his back against the door, and they were for a moment an almost perfect mirror image of each other.

‘I met someone like you once, you know,’ Mark began slowly. ‘I mean, someone who . . .’ He didn’t want to say the word. It made it too real. ‘She came up to me one night, this _beautiful_ girl, and she – she was holding a CD of ours, you know, and she wanted me to sign it. So I did, and I saw she had these, these, like, scars on her arm. So I ask her, is everything all right, and she just lights up and says that she hasn’t – she hasn’t harmed herself for a year because of us. And I didn’t understand what that meant at the time, so I just smiled and signed her CD. But then I met her again a year later, and the scars were gone. She looked happy.’

Robbie sniffed very loudly. More hiccups: ‘W-what are you saying?’

‘I mean that these things can get better if you try. I think.’

‘I d-don’t think becoming a fan of a boy band w-will make me stop wantin’ to kill meself, Mark.’

The words just spilled from Rob’s mouth, and they were so inappropriately honest that it made Mark laugh out loud. Robbie laughed too, but it sounded more like a weak cough. Still; he was laughing. It was something. ‘Maybe not, but ain’t there somethin’ you can live for, Rob? Like — like a new album, or the tour – or – or _sex_ ,’ Mark added, pronouncing the word ‘sex’ like it was a delicate flower.

‘D’you think I’m doing much shaggin’ with me arms looking like this, mate?’

Mark laughed again, but this time it sounded hollow. He hazarded the question he’d been wanting to ask for some time. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come in, Rob? I could have a look at you.’

The comment made Rob creep back into his shell. He drew up his knees again and tried to rub the wet streaks from his face. ‘You should leave, Markie,’ he said, his words barely audible through the wood door. It didn’t sound like he meant it.

Mark tried to think. So his soothing words hadn’t helped. Neither had his promise of a better future or his story about the fan he’d met all those years ago. Clearly, a different approach was needed if Mark wanted his mate to leave his makeshift cell of fear and self-neglect. He didn’t want to threaten his friend, but it was the only card he had left to play.

Mark got up from the floor, deliberately loudly. He put his arms on his sides to make himself feel stronger, more authoritative. This might have worked if he’d been wearing a black, sleeveless shirt that showed off his arms, but alas; he was wearing a rather fluffy sweater that was all the rage in the nineties, and he could not have looked less authoritative if he tried. But he had to try.

‘I’ve had more than enough of this, Rob,’ he said, channelling his mother’s voice if he’d done something stupid. ‘I’m tellin’ Nige.’

Mark said this with such ire and decision that it did the trick. Sudden terror made Robbie scramble to his feet. He brushed his arm against the door in the process and swore underneath his breath. He faced the door. ‘Please don’t tell Nige. Please. I beg of you, mate.’

‘Why not, Rob?’ Mark asked, arms akimbo. He tried to sound grown-up, but his clipped voice belied how truly terrified he was. He’d never been in a situation like this before. ‘I can’t let you go out like that, can I? We’re on tour, remember? If just one person sees what you’re like, we’ll all be in trouble. Imagine the headlines!’

It was an unfair and selfish threat, but it was true. They were on tour; the most important time of the year. Nigel would eliminate anything that threatened the show’s perfection, including a boy bander in pain.

‘ _Please_ , Markie,’ Robbie pleaded. His injured hand rested on the bathroom door, wanting to reach out to Mark and beg him, _please, please don’t tell Nige._ ‘You know he’ll kick me if he finds out. He already hates me as is.’

‘Then open the door, mate. I can’t pretend like I understand what’s going on, but I can help. We can talk.’

Mark traced his finger along the door; down, down, down until he reached the handle. Welded in spotless gold, it still wouldn’t give. It was funny how faded the gold and silver hues in the four-star bedroom looked now that Mark had come face to face with such despair. Even his large waterbed, covered in plaid sheets and huge comfortable pillows, looked less appealing than it had before. Something dark and suffocating had stained all over it. Maybe four-star hotels weren’t that far removed from the shoddy B&Bs they used to stay in after all.

Quiet settled over them, leaving only the wretched cacophony of pelting rain and whipping branches against the bedroom window. In front of the half-open window, the curtains shook a little in the breeze. The room was chilly, but not unpleasantly so. If anything, it kept Mark’s mind as clear as his friend’s predicament allowed him.

Then there came Rob’s voice, half-drowned by the soaring wind: ‘P-promise you won’t tell anyone?’

‘I promise, mate.’

This would not do. The slightest hint of fear coloured Rob’s voice. ‘Swear it, Mark. S-swear it on s-somethin’ you care about.’

Another silence fell over them. A thunderclap sounded in the distance, shaking this strange, foreign city to the core. A light flickered in Mark’s periphery. ‘ _You’re_ what I care about, Rob,’ Mark said, so softly he might as well have whispered it. Maybe he had. ‘Please. Open the door.’

Robbie took some time to think these words over. ‘Y-you mean that?’

‘Course I do, mate. _Please_.’

Something in Mark’s words breached Rob’s damaged subconscious. At last, the lock gave a relieved _click_ , and Mark had to step aside to let Rob push the door open.

What Makr saw made his heart give a sorry pang. His mouth let out an involuntary ‘oh’. He’d never seen anyone so far gone before.

Robbie saw Mark thinking it. He made an embarrassed movement to turn away his damaged body and pallid complexion, but his mate simply wouldn’t let him out of his sight ever again. Mark reached out to embrace him, tightly, and he stood on tiptoes to kiss Robbie over and over until the tears again began to fall freely on both their faces.

‘It’s okay, Rob,’ Mark weakly whispered against Rob’s cheek. ‘It’s okay.’ _I love you_ , he thought. Or maybe he accidentally said it out loud; in the hustle of their embrace, it hardly mattered.

‘I’m s-s-sorry, Mark,’ Rob stammered. His red cheeks were wet with tears. His arms, terrified that they would shatter if he put them round Mark’s body, remained at his sides. But Mark wasn’t letting go of him. Ever. ‘I’m s-s-so sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly, Rob. It’s okay.’ Mark rubbed the small of Rob’s back, soothing him like they were children. He gave his mate another kiss, and there were more tears. His own cheeks were wet too, more out of relief than anything else. ‘There you go. Let it all out.’

They stood there like that for three minutes or more, just embracing. Occasionally, Mark would whisper a soothing sweet-nothing into Rob’s ear that almost made them sound like lovers — but not quite. Tonight, they were neither friends nor lovers, just a comfortable safe space in between. Things were complicated enough without them having to put a stamp on everything.

Eventually, Robbie felt safe enough to return the hug and to wrap his arms around Mark’s lithe body. He felt soft wool brush against his cuts and faintly smelled Mark’s freshly washed hair in between whiffs of blood. Mark almost felt too kind and too gentle a person to be mixed up in such dark matters of the soul, but there they were. It was too late to go back now, no matter how long they hugged.

As a final sob rocked Rob’s body, it became time to assess the damage. Mark took a step back and slowly took in the sight of Rob’s body. It made him feel sick. He counted four cuts in total, deep ones. Most of the blood had already dried up, creating a cracked red landscape all over Rob’s left arm. It made the yellow and green bruises underneath almost undistinguishable, but they both knew they were there. God knows what had created them. Mark didn’t want to know.

Robbie knew how bad he looked. He’d seen it in the mirror. He saw it every time he got undressed.

He said the only thing he could. ‘Help me, Mark.’

Mark did. Of course he did. From that moment on, he spoke only when he needed to. He took care of Rob’s wounds in quick, experienced steps: first by cleaning them (this hurt a lot, but naturally Rob didn’t let it show), then by covering them with a bandage Mark had found in a small first-aid kit in his suitcase. In the space of a few minutes, Rob’s arm went from looking like a Martian landscape to being covered up in perfect, virginal white. Anyone would have thought he’d had his blood tested or something.

All the while he worked, Mark kept asking Rob if he was all right. Not knowing what else to say, it was the only thing that left his mouth. His short fingers were perfectly soft, avoiding damaged skin and sending electric pinpricks through the parts of Rob’s body that were still intact. But it was that pair of big blue eyes that said the most: keenly soothing and innocent as they were, they also shone with absolute _terror_. There would be no going back from what he’d seen. This secret was to be buried with him.

But Mark still didn’t know what had made Rob feel this way. What on Earth had happened? What could be so _bad_ that it made someone turn on themselves?

At a quarter past one, the work was done. The smell of soap and disinfectant stained the air. Robbie almost looked like his old self again, if you ignored the bloodshot eyes and frankly worrying display of green on his arms. He looked less pale.

Mark gave Robbie a weak smile. ‘There, all better now,’ he said, though he scarcely believed it himself. He washed his hands and cleaned the mess on the bathroom floor, including the blade Robbie had used. Mark ended up flushing it through the toilet. (He also took the liberty to throw away all of Rob’s other blades, which meant Robbie would look a little less like a clean-shaven boy bander over the next few days.)

Mark nodded at Rob’s arms. ‘You’ll probably wanna cover that up with a sweater, but you should be fine. I’ll have another look at it later to make sure I’ve done it properly. I think I have, but . . . you know. I don’t want you to be in pain.’

It was the simplest of gestures, but it filled Rob with gratitude. Any other person in his life would have left him to bleed out on the floor, or worse. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, though it hardly described how thankful he was. His eyes flicked at the bandage that Mark had applied for him, a little ashamed to have lost himself in the moment so much. Out of all his relapses, this one had been by far the worst. ‘I – I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You don’t _have_ to, Rob,’ Mark reassured him, his voice a little worried still. He grabbed Rob’s hand and held it tight; a quiet _I love you_. Rob gave a grateful squeeze back, even though it made the cuts on his arms hurt like hell. It felt like he had a thousand little papercuts on his skin.

Mark jerked his head at the door. His mouth broadened in a smile. ‘Come, let’s get outta here. Do you wanna drink tea? I’m gonna make tea.’

This made Rob laugh a relieved sort of laugh, and they went back into the bedroom, hand-in-hand. ‘I’d like that, mate.’

Robbie wasn’t calm by the time they walked out of the bathroom, but he was a lot calmer. His body felt sore, like he’d just left a particularly tough day of rehearsals, but having Mark there almost eased the pain. Mark had even made a point of closing the bathroom door so Rob might feel like he’d shut the dark away. In a way, he had.

Mark told Rob to sit on the bed while he searched for the hotel kettle and teabags to make tea. It might have been late, but they were still English, and he reckoned a comforting Earl Grey was just another step on the road to Rob’s recovery.

The bed felt satisfyingly safe underneath Rob’s hands. Real. Suddenly, everything did: from the carpet that tickled his feet to the half-open window that displayed nothing but a dark canvas. It seemed quite perfect that the rain had stopped to fall outside; already, the storm had ceased to be, and where there were previously dark clouds was now a blanket of stars. A breeze from the window brushed over Rob’s naked arms, and for the first time since returning to the hotel, he noticed the cold. It made the hairs on his body stand on end, highlighting the nasty bruises on his pale skin that he didn’t want Mark to see. Unfortunately for him, Mark already had.

Rob scanned the room for his clothes. He found one of his old sweaters on the floor; the one he usually wore to bed if he was cold. Sometimes the boys received freebies from upcoming fashion designers so that they might wear their clothes and do promo for them, and this was one of them. It wasn’t particularly fashionable, but at least it was warm. Robbie decided to put it on, and he had to suck in his breath when he squeezed his arm into his left sleeve. It hurt. A _lot_.

Mark saw Robbie struggling. By now, he had found two teacups that donned the hotel logo, Earl Grey teabags, and a large stainless kettle. He remembered how Robbie had reacted when he last offered him help, and spoke carefully: ‘Do you want me to help, Rob?’

‘I’m all right,’ Robbie replied through gritted teeth.

Mark could tell he wasn’t. He left the electric kettle to do its job and sat next to Rob on the bed. He nodded at Rob’s sweater, which his mate was half in the process of putting on. ‘Allow me?’

Robbie turned slightly red. ‘I – I don’t need your help gettin’ dressed, Mark.’ There was no venom in it.

‘It’s okay. I used to work at a tailor’s, you know.’

This was a rather meaningless justification, but to Robbie it kind of made sense. He nodded for consent, and Mark gingerly helped Robbie put on his sweater. As though Mark’s hands were made of pure magic, they did not brush against Rob’s bandage at all, and within a few moments, the young lad’s arms were all covered up. He had not felt any pain in the process. Even the bandage was still in place, and at last the bruises were gone.

The stainless steel kettle whistled and shook, violently, before the moment could turn into something more intimate. Mark got up from the bed and carefully started pouring hot, steaming water into the cups he’d found: small ones, with the hotel logo slapped on either side. Other than that, they were spotless but for a small chip on the cup Mark had claimed as his.

Remembering that Robbie usually took his tea with sugar, Mark gently poured the contents of a sugar stick into his cup and stirred. In his own, he poured a tiny amount of coffee milk until the tea turned a light beach brown. Conscious that it was already past midnight, he skipped the sugar.

Robbie watched Mark throw away the used tea bags and sugar sticks in a trash can underneath a wooden desk that was absolutely covered with clothes; his own. He had a quizzical look on his face, like he was waiting for something that he wasn’t sure would ever happen. ‘Aren’t you goin’ to ask me why I did it, Mark?’

Mark’s smile faded only a little. He didn’t quite look Rob in the eye when he gave him his cup. ‘I didn’t want to push.’

Robbie felt the mattress sink when Mark sat next to him. His own throat suddenly seemed to tighten at having Mark so close to him, so he took a sip of Earl Grey and found it too hot for his tongue. Instead, he stared at the logo on the cup, hard. He’d considered the possibility of confiding into someone often, and he wouldn’t mind doing it tonight, with Mark, but he had no idea where to start. His issues felt too small and too large to discuss at the same time. Thousands of boys would do anything to have the lives Take That lived; could Rob really admit that it was nothing people made it out to be?

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ Mark offered when Rob didn’t speak. ‘I understand if it’s a difficult topic.’

‘But I can’t keep it to meself either, can I, Mark?’ It was a statement, not a question. Robbie knew he had to tell _someone_. If he didn’t, his demons would keep consuming him until there was nothing of the old Rob left. ‘I feel like it’s eatin’ me up inside.’

Mark thought about how distant Rob had been lately; how often he’d disappeared after a gig and not returned till the early hours of the next day. Everyone always assumed he must be seeing someone in secret, some girl he’d met at a signing or rather, but the girl never showed, and Rob’s eyes were too hollow for love.

Rob had never said anything about how he was feeling, ever, but then again the boys didn’t talk about their feelings much. When did they ever ask each other how they were doing? Or how their day had been? Never, that’s when.

‘You could also tell someone else. Like – like a therapist,’ Mark offered a little cluelessly. ‘They know how to talk to people like you.’

Rob’s ire grew. _People like you? What the hell was that supposed to mean?_ ‘I’m not _mad_ , Mark.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry. I’m just sayin’.’ Mark spoke these words very quickly, conscious that any wrong suggestion might be the wrong one. Upsetting his mate was the last thing he wanted. ‘You can talk to me too. But only if you want to.’

This was followed by another silence. The spoon in Mark’s cup scraped against the ceramic when he took a big sip of his tea and nearly burnt his tongue in the process. The wind howled, gently, against the exterior walls of the hotel.

Rob made an unconscious move to scratch his left arm, then put his hand down again when he remembered what he’d done. He didn’t look up again. His voice was laced with sadness. ‘It . . . it feels like a hangover.’

The remark was lost on Mark. ‘What does?’

‘After you’ve harmed yourself,’ Rob explained. His voice broke mid-sentence, so he took a sip of tea so he did not have to talk for a while. He thought he could hear the wind carry the sounds of inebriated guests towards their open window. Then, ‘People think that kids harm themselves cos it makes ‘em feel better, but it doesn’t. I’m gonna wake up tomorrow morning and feel like absolute shit. And sometimes, afterwards . . . sometimes I get sick as well. You know, ill. _Really_ ill. Like me body’s telling me something’s wrong with me. But I never listen. I just keep going and going until the pain nearly bowls me over.’

These words _just_ poured from Rob’s mouth, and Mark had found it hard to keep up. It explained how Rob felt, but not _why he did it._ If harming himself made Robbie feel absolutely terrible, then surely it was an unhealthy way of dealing with his problems? It was like fighting fire with fire.

‘I don’t understand, Rob,’ Mark admitted. ‘If it makes you feel so bad, then why do you do it? What are you not telling me?’

Rob sniffed. He rubbed his nose with his right hand. ‘It’s just easier. It’s easier to feel pain than to face what you’re feelin’ inside. You know what I mean?’

Mark didn’t. He shook his head.

‘I . . . I just feel like everyone sees right through me, Mark. Nige. Jay. Gary. _Especially_ Gary.’ He spat out the name like it was poisoned. He hated Gary. _Hated_ him. Gary had done nothing but make him feel like a worthless piece of shit every single moment of the day. Robbie almost felt like pretending to love him just to spite him.

‘No-one talks to me,’ Rob went on. ‘No-one sees me. But deep down, I’m hurtin’. I’m in _pain_ , Mark. I don’t – I don’t wanna be stood in the back anymore. I don’t want to pretend that I enjoy meetin’ fans when it actually makes me feel like shit. I know _you’ve_ always got a smile on your face, but I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t pretend to want to meet all these girls with their issues and gifts that do me head in. And it’s fucking exhausting, this. Day in, day out, I’ve got to drag meself out of bed and do the same _bloody_ thing all over. It’s like I’m stuck on repeat.’

He was stumbling over his sentences, forcing each word out before he could regret them: ‘And what do I get back? Nothing. There’re no pats on the back, no ‘oh, well done, Rob; that performance you did there was fucking _ace’_ — you just do it cos you have to. That’s it. There’s no rewards, _ever._ I thought bein’ in a band would be special, but it’s just shit. It’s just shit. And I can’t even be on me own cos there’s girls everywhere I turn. I don’t think I’ve been able to have a proper fuckin’ _think_ for the past two years.’

Robbie had said all of this very quickly, slurring the words as he went. But he wasn’t finished yet.

‘To be honest, I don’t even know if I still want to be here, Markie.’ This time, Robbie spoke slowly, calculatedly. He knew the weight of the words he was speaking and must have rehearsed them over and over in his head. He looked at his left arm; covered up, but still hurting. ‘It’s either that, or . . . you know. Harming meself. Ending it. I don’t know what else to do, mate, I really don’t.’

Robbie’s confession hit Mark like a punch in the gut. He had met people who were hurting, hugged them and even been with them to kiss and fuck away the pain, but to see someone’s pain so crudely laid out in front of him was something else entirely. Robbie Williams, his best mate and partner in crime in Take That, the lad who could light up an entire room with just a single joke, felt _alone_. What a sobering thought.

If Rob wasn’t safe from depression, then was anyone, really? Was it going to hit the five of them like an epidemic until the band turned into a former shell of itself and they were all sad and hurt? Was it going to devour Mark too, or was the music industry already in the process of doing just that to him? He didn’t know. Mark had always been smiley and positive. That’s who he was. But now that he saw the look in Rob’s eyes, it was like the foundations of the band had been laid bare. Not everything was perfect. He saw that now. He had to. But oh, if only he’d seen it sooner.

The bruises and cuts on Rob’s skin could be hidden away and tucked underneath a comfortable yellow sweater, but his feelings could not. They had been there all this time, for weeks and months and years, and Mark had not been there to stop it. He had been a bad friend, choosing idle chit-chat and shags over his own best mate. Perhaps if he and Robbie had just sat down to have a good talk, like proper mates do, this would never have happened. Robbie would feel happy and loved, like he was supposed to. 

Mark put down his empty teacup on the bedside table and took Rob’s cold hands in his. He flashed Robbie a smile that only Mark Owen was capable of giving: sad but beautiful, like the green eyes that were staring back at him. ‘I’m gonna be here for you, okay, Rob? Whatever you need, I’ll be there. You just shout. Even if it’s in the middle of the night.’

Like a parent consoling a sad child, Mark moved his right hand to Rob’s cheek, where a single tear had rolled down. He wiped it away with his thumb. With his bright blue eyes flicking for a brief, thoughtless moment at Rob’s chapped mouth, Mark almost seemed to want to do a lot more to make Rob feel better. _Almost_. But then, ‘I’m not gonna let you get through this on your own, okay? I’m not. I promise.’

Robbie swallowed hard. Bloodshot eyes met Mark’s. He gave a wan, nervous smile. ‘B-but the things I said about the band . . . aren’t you mad at me?’ He almost seemed incapable of believing he was worthy of Mark’s love after all the things he’d admitted. How could Mark still love him if he felt so little love for Take That?

Mark shook his head. ‘I can’t pretend I understand, but if this is really how you feel then I’m gonna do everything to make you happy again.’ He sighed. He thought of previous moments of personal reverie: of meeting girls; of having fun at after-parties and having his first taste of three-ways and drugs. During those moments, he never thought of Rob, not even for a second. But he should have. He should have been there for him. ‘I – I think I was enjoyin’ myself too much to consider that others might not be. I’m sorry. I should have known. I should have asked.’

Here, Mark gave Rob a quick kiss on the cheek; a cheap means to say sorry for all the things he hadn’t seen. The kiss was soft and perfectly innocent, but it was enough to make Robbie’s eyes flutter closed at the contact. He still smelled of cigarettes. Mark didn’t mind it.  

Robbie looked a little flustered when they broke apart. His previously pale cheeks had gone quite red. ‘I’m still not gonna talk to a therapist, though, Mark,’ he proclaimed sheepishly, talking more to his cup of tea than to Mark. Clearly, it was a touchy subject, but at least they were discussing it. ‘I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t think I ever will be, to be honest.’

‘Then what will you do? Are you gonna tell the others?’

Robbie looked at his left arm again. He touched it briefly. ‘Dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.’ His voice sounded as fragile as glass.

‘But you _do_ want to get better?’ Mark asked, soft but stern. _Patronising._

Rob flinched at the question. Two green eyes flicked up at Mark. There was that youthful fieriness again. ‘Of _course_.’

Clearly it’d been the wrong thing to ask. ‘Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s your choice. You know what’s best for you,’ Mark added, but he wasn’t so sure about that.

Robbie stared at his teacup again, a little embarrassed to have snapped so easily. He did his best to pronounce his next words with less of an edge. ‘I just need someone to stop me from doin’ stupid shit like this, I guess. I don’t feel terrible _all_ of the time, just when I’m on me own. That’s when the demons come out.’ He smiled nervously. ‘Does that make sense?’

It did, kinda. Mark nodded slowly as an idea started forming in his mind. ‘So if I spent more time with you, you might get better?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, if we just sat down to talk about how we’re feelin’ a bit more? You and me? Together?’

Rob shrugged noncommittally. It didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

‘Then that’s what we do,’ Mark proclaimed determinedly.

Robbie gaped at him. There was a joy in his own eyes that he didn’t think he deserved. ‘What, every night? Seriously?’

He repeated Mark’s offer in his mind, tried to hear it over the incessant stream of negative thoughts in his mind. He could almost imagine it: him and Mark, meeting up each night to talk. It was the most comforting thought he’d ever had. But then his mind flashed to all the times he’d seen Mark disappear into his room, holding hands with a barely legal blonde or brunette (or both); absolutely off his tits, with a mischievous look in his eyes that made Robbie feel a pang of jealousy for all the wrong reasons. Would Mark really give all of that up for him?

‘But what if you met someone?’

Mark scrunched up his nose. ‘I’ll just have to be quick, won’t I?’

Apparently, that settled it. Mark was going to check in on Robbie every night, perhaps even stay with him. They were under no delusion that it would solve all of Rob’s problems, especially not the ones so intrinsically connected with the workings of a band, but it was something. You can’t just rid a lad of his demons, Rob knew that – and Mark did too, despite his ignorance –; but you _can_ make him feel less lonely. In an industry that is so very individualistic, having a friend could mean the difference between death and life. 

The conversation had come to an end. Slowly but surely, Mark set about cleaning the teacups they’d used. It was a wordless clue that he thought it was time for bed; after all, it was almost two, and despite Rob’s issues they still had a concert to rehearse for tomorrow. The show must go on.

Mark took another look at Rob’s bandage to make sure he’d applied it correctly (he had), and then they got dressed for bed. Perhaps scared to be separated from Mark and doing something he shouldn’t, Robbie stayed in the bedroom to change into his red pyjama pants. This meant that Mark got a good look at the fresh bruises and scars on Rob’s legs, dotted all the way down his thighs like an expressionistic tattoo; ugly up close, but a story of a thousand cuts from afar.

Rob’s reluctance to go back into the bathroom also meant he caught a quick glimpse of Mark’s chest: it was flat and tanned and perfectly spotless, unlike his. A blue dolphin tattoo on Mark’s right side made for a much more enticing permanent mark. His chest was hairless. Again, unlike Rob’s. Both sights were equally as embarrassing, and Mark had to turn his back on Rob for fear of going red. They might have been boys, but that didn’t change how they felt about each other’s bodies, and their own. They both made the untruthful wish of wanting separate dressing rooms on tour next year.

A few minutes later, they were ready. Mark had traded his fluffy jumper and baggy trousers for a traditional pair of pyjamas that left everything to the imagination. There was a myriad of questions still up in the air, but now was not the time to ask. Mark knew that. This would be a long process, and one that would involve a lot more than just simple answers to the questions Mark had. The most important thing was that Rob was safe within these four walls; hurting, perhaps, but safe. It was more than they could both ask for.

Rob groaned when he got into bed, like an old man with a broken back. He was forced to lie on his right side, but every move still sent pinpricks of pain through his other arm. A sadistic part of him enjoyed it, for it made him feel more alive than his numb heart had allowed him. If he felt pain, then perhaps he could feel love and joy and happiness and solace too — but it didn’t work that way. All the pain did, was remind him of how utterly lost and lonely he was. If he wasn’t aware of it before, he was now.

Mark patiently allowed Rob to get into his bed on his own. He was still standing next to his own bed, pointlessly adjusting his pillows before moving on to his belongings on the bedside table. He straightened them so they made a nice, perpendicular tower of self-help books and travel guides, with a single bottle of incense on top. It made the room smell of rice milk and cherry blossom, and less of Rob’s cigarettes. It’s as though he thought he and Rob would feel better if the room looked and smelled nice.

Rob didn’t: he let out another groan, and Mark turned towards him. There was a pained grimace on his mate’s face. ‘You okay, Rob?’

Rob shook his head. He tried to lie down more comfortably, but even the bandage did not stop the thick sheets from brushing against his cuts. ‘I always forget how much it hurts.’

Mark didn’t know what to say to this. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Probably not, mate.’ For a moment, Rob failed to remember the recent bruises on his legs and groaned, hard, when he changed his position again. He suddenly felt the egg on his leg acutely; so acutely that it felt like he was carrying an extra weight on his body that hadn’t been there three seconds ago. Every part of his attention was drawn _there_ , towards his bruise, like it was the only thing he could feel.  This was nothing like the bruises he’d gained from rehearsals, because those he could be proud of. This one he hated.

Rob saw the worried look on Mark’s face. He cut the air with a casual wave of his hand. ‘It always gets worse when you get to bed,’ he said, so indifferently he might as well have been talking about something ordinary like what to have for breakfast. ‘It’ll pass in a second’.

Rob may have been used to the repercussions of his depression, but Mark was not. He still couldn’t imagine that this pain was a daily occurrence, no less accept it. He could not go to bed and sleep comfortably while his best mate was aching, self-afflicted or not. He had to _do_ something.

But that’s where Mark’s sudden train of thought ended, for he still didn’t know what Rob actually _needed_. Robbie had spoken of fans and pats on the back and wanting more than this, more than being just a backing dancer, and Mark _got_ that; he could fix those things and make everything better for Rob if he just smiled right and fluttered his eyelashes at the right people in charge, but the smarting remained. Robbie would still wake up tomorrow morning feeling like he had a hangover from hell. This unfamiliar pain that Mark had never felt – that deep, aching, terrible feeling of loneliness in the pit of his stomach – was still going to be reflected in Rob’s eyes every single moment of the day.

And it’s _that_ thought that did it. Suddenly, Robbie was not just a terrible problem that needed solving or a feeling Mark could not comprehend, but just a mate who needed to get through the night. Thus far, Rob had been through everything on his own, from that first cut to his waking up the next day, alone and misunderstood and wanting to do it all over again until he bled out on the floor.

Not anymore.

‘Move over, Rob.’

‘What? Why?’

Mark’s answer came instantly. ‘Cos I’m gonna lie next to you, that’s why.’

This made Robbie shoot upright in his bed faster than his injuries allowed him. The colour drained from his face as he made a superfluous attempt to pull the sheets over his covered-up body. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had slept with him, romantically or otherwise. Recently he’d thought himself too repulsive for it.

When Rob spoke again, he did so slowly, trembling. Like he was convinced no one would _ever_ want to be that close to him. ‘ _Why_ , _Mark._ ’ It wasn’t a question this time, but a judgmental jibe.

Mark’s mind struggled to come up with a reasonable excuse, so he told Rob the truth. ‘I don’t want you to be alone when you wake up tomorrow.’ Perhaps he’d been too eager. He moderated his tone. ‘I mean, unless you mind us sleeping in the same bed. In that case, I’ll just go back to my own.’

Robbie’s glance at Mark was delicately cautious. He thought of his options and weighed them in his mind: either he could lie here on his own, in pain and uncomfortable (but also able to slip out of bed if his demons required it); or Mark could lie next to him, making him feel safe and warm. Mark would hear and feel every fragile intake of breath until Rob dozed off, every murmur in his sleep. There would be no more secrets between them. Not a single one.

And that’s what made it so complicated. For while Mark now knew a lot about Robbie, he didn’t know everything. Robbie still had quite a few cards to play and yet more secrets hidden deep inside the dark crevices of his heart. He had mostly been truthful about the cause of his sadness, but his reluctance to stay in the band wasn’t the only reason. There was more to his demons that he hadn’t told Mark, and it could all be traced back here, to Mark asking Robbie if he could sleep with him.

How could he say no?

Robbie nodded. Like Mark, he had gone slightly red. ‘Okay. But I swear, Mark, if you tell anyone about this —’

‘Jesus, Rob. I’m not about to _sleep_ with you!’

‘Yeah, but you _are_ , though, Mark.’

This made Mark turn even redder. Robbie didn’t think he was capable of it. ‘D’you want me to join you or not?’

Rob gave his answer quickly, impatiently. ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ He said this through gritted teeth, but there was no poison in it. He moved as quickly as his wounded body allowed him and winced a little when the mattress dipped underneath Mark’s weight.

With the sheer fear and adrenaline that he’d felt in the bathroom no longer keeping him upright, Rob suddenly felt everything again: the egg on his thigh; that one cut on his wrist; the bruise on his ankle that was, ironically, the result of a poor dance move on stage. At least he didn’t have to lie about how he got it.

Every single throbbing ache simply felt multiplied, worsened by the dark that suddenly fell over him when Mark turned off the lights. The thin sliver of light that escaped through the muslin curtains offered no comfort, and all was silence apart from the humming in his ears. If he concentrated, Rob thought he heard the drunk noises from the bar downstairs.

He couldn’t concentrate.

Slowly but surely, the dark made the demons return. Rob mind flashed back to the dangerous blade in his hands, and he had to pinch his eyes together to shut out the image of blood. So much blood. Tonight, he’d dream about the blood again. He’d drink it and taste it and drown in it in his nightmares until it all became so much that a simple cut across his wrist felt like a papercut.

The voices in his head pelted him with one negative thought after another. His hand shot to his arm, remembering too late that it was covered up. He wanted to trail his nails over the ridges of his cuts; scratch them out, make himself bleed again. He cruelly thought to himself what pretty scars they’d make.

It was getting worse. Rob felt for a split second alone in his pain. He was a million miles away from Earth, stuck between the comforting light and the dangerous dark. But then he felt Mark’s lithe arms wrap around him, and he was transported right back.

‘Mark . . .’

‘ _Shh._ Relax.’

Rob did. Suddenly, he was back. He was safe. _You’re safe. You’re safe,_ Robbie told himself over and over. _Mark’s here. I’m here._

Mark’s arms did wonders to Robbie’s soul. They were thin and lithe and yet perfectly strong to keep him from floating into the dark. They were his lighthouse; his anchor in the night.

Robbie adjusted his position to allow Mark to rest his head on his shoulder. Mark’s hand fall flat on Rob’s tummy, right where his belly button was. There were no wounds, so Mark’s hand didn’t hurt. It just felt wonderful. 

‘Everything all right, Rob? No pain?’

Rob felt the breath of Mark’s words right on his skin. As if the intimacy of the moment required it, they had both started whispering. Their position made them look precociously much like a couple, but Rob’s ache felt so far away that it didn’t matter. If this made them a couple, then so be it. He was safe, wasn’t he? He was safe.

‘No pain. Cheers, mate. This – this helps.’

‘I’m glad. Now go to sleep, Rob.’

Robbie wasn’t ready to sleep yet. There was one thing still on his mind. ‘I don’t know why you put up with me to be honest, mate,’ he laughed nervously. It wasn’t a statement, but a question. _Help me understand._

It was hard to tell in the dark, but Mark seemed to shrug. ‘You know. I put up with you cos I love you.’

This time, Mark hadn’t just thought it, and Rob hadn’t imagined it.

Rob’s skin seemed to flare up in all the right places. ‘You – you love me?’

Mark uttered an affirmative hum and snuggled closer to Rob, almost smothering him with his arms. They needn’t say anything else. His unruly hair brushed against Rob’s face as he did, and Rob’s heart gave a guilty pang when he smelled fresh soap and shampoo.

Mark loved him. 

And Rob loved – _needed_ – him back.

Mark didn’t move an inch. His short, skinny body felt like a warm blanket as he unconsciously rubbed a hand up and down’s Rob sensitive tummy, and it was only then that Rob realised that he had not felt suffocating sadness for a minute or a lifetime. Even the memory of it didn’t make the feelings come crashing back. All there was, was an utter sense of calm in his head. He was conscious of every single fingertip and limb and blemish on his body, but not because they hurt — he felt them because he suddenly _could_. If Rob’s relapse had been a terrifying out of body experience, then being with Mark had finally put him right back, making him tantalizingly aware of the soft, gentle lips he suddenly felt against his own.

The boys shared a brief look in silence before they kissed again, passionately, and everything was understood.


End file.
